


so it goes... (king of my heart)

by infinitehearts



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Dragons, M/M, Magic, Multi, Prince!yuuri, Swords, mixture of modern and medieval, royalty!au, tsar!viktor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-01-31 17:52:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12687213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infinitehearts/pseuds/infinitehearts
Summary: There's always been magic in the air, and well, sometimes things just don't go well. Viktor knows nothing more than sit still, look pretty, be seen and not heard. Regal, majestic. Cruel, cold, convincing. He plays his part. Yuuri, on the other hand, watches the world change between blinds, without his glasses on. It all blurs together, and he slips through the cracks. Maybe they're just made for each other. Or maybe it comes down to the politics of it all, but who knows? Life at court is enough of a struggle as it is.





	1. 16 // 12

               The thing is, they don’t know how this has happened. The castle’s healer is on the case, but she looks frail as well… and then she drops too. Inky fluid in both of their veins, bubbled up from under the skin. Grey skin, puckered up and too loose all at once.

                Yakov doesn’t want to let the boy see. After all, that’s really all Viktor is. He’s never been allowed out of the palace for anything more than necessary, to keep the future Tsar safe. To keep him with his court, the children of the nobles. The grounds are certainly big enough to keep them from feeling trapped, but he can see it in those crystalline eyes that poor Viktor feels trapped nonetheless.

                Court is all he knows, and thus so it is the bane of his existence. Nothing less is to be expected from the dramatic teenager, still trying to figure out who he is, and who he plans on being. Even though he’s accepted it over time, Yakov still remembers how growing up felt like a trap. How he hit a point where things started going downhill, when he moved out of the court and into the position of royal advisor to Tsarina Vasiliya Aleksandrovna Nikiforova. It was a dream in the beginning, out of the madness and planning and demands of court, and he never bored of the work. It was taxing, for a while, when he was young and foolhardy, putting more into his duties than his marriage, but Lilia was more understanding then too. After all, she hadn’t been born to the same kind of lives that he and the queen had. The Bolshoi Ballet was her life then. She had been not only a prima ballerina, but the resident principle danseur. He still couldn’t help but wonder if he was the reason that she gave up the last of her prime years there. Then again, Vasiliya had always told him he put too much of himself into aiding her, and in the end, he’d driven Lilia away.

                In some way, maybe that was why he was always so hard on Viktor, because he saw his younger self and his mistakes.

                Viktor, as stubborn as he is, manages to fight his way into being allowed to see his mother. It’s not in person, but it sates him. Seeing her, one last time, even at her worst, is enough. He does, however, notice the amount of guards around her chambers triple. They shuffle aside so Georgi has room to put the viewing poultice on the wall for Viktor to look in.

                He might not have any presented magical ability, but he can feel the magic in her room, even though he’s not inside of it. It feels spoiled, sour, and rotten. It’s no wonder that their healer passed too. The magic, because there’s no wound or illness that does this to a person, so it must be magic, is going to take weeks to flush out of the castle safely.

                Viktor knows no pain like the loss of his mother, since he never knew the last Tsar. He aspires to be like his father, nonetheless. He wants to be able to do anything his country needs from him. Yakov tries to talk him out of this sole devotion, but he doesn’t have anyone but his people. He’s all alone, and maybe, just maybe, this way he’ll feel less alone.

~*~

                As it turns out, Viktor only knows how to surprise people. The morning of his birthday, the morning after his mother’s death, he wakes up to walls covered in ice. He doesn’t know when it happened, or what caused it, but as much as he pretends it doesn’t mean a thing, it secretly delights him. He’s just now sixteen. Not a child, and not a man. He has no idea of how to rule a country, let alone an empire. And really, Rieva is an empire compared to other nations.

                The fact that law states he must show mastery over magic, if presented, to ascend to the throne, is a bit of a saving grace. It grants him time. Not much, because he’s always been a quick learner, but time, nonetheless.

                It’s kind of useless, anyways. Rieva cannot survive without a tsar. Even though none of the other nations will acknowledge his ascension until Mila Babicheva, the youngest member of his presiding court, comes of age. He likes Mila, even if she’s just nine and still asks lots of questions that he doesn’t always like answering. She and Georgi are the closest things he’s ever known to siblings, after all. They’re like his little brother and sister, even if the only thing that holds them together is the fact they make up the nobility. He’d never wish his situation onto her, never trade places with her, even if everything would be so much easier that way.

                He’ll take his place on the throne, to keep the interests of the people on the throne, and to keep a piece of his family close.

                There is nothing more terrifying. Time will run out, eventually, and he will unofficially ascend to the throne.

                He’s already been informed that the normal coronation procedures will not be carried out at this time, because of the circumstances. The crown cannot be bestowed until all of his court is of age, as the process is what officiates the United Nations to certify his position as tsar and allow other nations to recognize him by his newfound title.

                Yakov assures him that the ceremony in the works will be enough to satisfy the needs of the Rievan people and secure his throne. Viktor can only hope Lilia and Yakov can pull it off, because while he trusts them both with all his heart, he’s not as much of an idiot as they sometimes think he is. He can hear his mother’s court, what will be his _temporary_ court, through the walls of the Throne Chamber when he passes by. He knows that they don’t believe he’s fit to rule, both from his age and his personality.

                Whatever it takes, he plans on proving them wrong. He’s already lost enough, as it is. He refuses to lose his throne too.

~*~

                The pond freezes in the winter, sometimes. He could escape, of course, but the onsen is the only place he feels like he has a little privacy.

                It’s certainly ironic, considering the onsen sees people at their most natural, but Yuuri knows that’s the drawbacks of being the shinnō. He wishes that the laws were more set in stone, that it was settled if he or Mari would rule when the time came to it, but he knows that he shouldn’t be worrying about that at the moment either.

                All he needs to worry about is if Minako-sensei has figured out where he is yet.

                His lessons are lovely, especially his dance lessons, and he thinks that no one could possibly ask for a better tutor, but the truth of the matter is, it’s her fault that she showed him the pond.

                The ice is like his emotions, fragile and delicate. And when he knows that it’s frozen over, he can’t help putting on his skates and reminding himself that he can persist. Just like the ice as he lets the blades carve into it, over and over again.

                Because he knows. No matter how hard they work to disguise _the look_ , Yuuri has learned. _The look_ is all their hopes and dreams. The fact that both his mother and father wish for him to take over, as tradition would dictate. Not because Mari isn’t wonderfully capable of being the ruler, but because they expect Yuuri would be better. A strong man, for Kaichiyama to look up to.

                The castle has never truly felt like home in the way the public onsen does. In the castle, Yuuri has to be important. Yuuri has to be the shinnō. Yuuri is a representation of his country, and he is weak. He will be pushed around, molded and shaped into the leader they will need in the future to stay afloat in negotiations with Rieva and Amambocha. To forgo the oppression that Chengyi faces in their own markets.

                His skates cut too far down in his frustration, and he throws himself face first onto the ice. He’d bother to get up, but the fresh powder crunches softly, and Yuuri knows Minako has tracked him down.

                “It figures that I’d find you out here.”

                “Minako-sensei. My lessons can wait a bit longer, yes?”

                Yuuri rarely asks for these things, usually dedicated himself fully to the lessons at hand, but today’s the only day where the ice is fresh, free of marks from his blades fully by the design of the weather, and not the simple spell that Minako taught him when he was first learning to skate, so he could resurface his own ice. That spell feels like cheating in a way.

                He supposes he should be lucky. Not everyone takes to spells so quickly, even though everyone has the ability to cast the simple ones. His mind’s eye spell is by far his worst, because its hard to hold onto the focus for very long. His own mind gets in the way, pushes him out by separating his feelings from the target’s feelings.

                “Yuuri, today’s the last day of lessons for a bit. We can practice out here if that would make you more comfortable, but we still have things to do before my trip.”

                Minako is polite enough, but he’s noticed she’s also very forward at all times. Sometimes, he wonders if it’s the fact that his mother asked her to do this and give up ballet that makes her this way. Other times, well, he’s pretty sure it’s just who she is.

                When the talk of politics is over, she lets Yuuri back on the ice. It’s not his dance classes, the ones he’s supposed to be having this very minute, but the knowing smirk on Minako’s face tells him that there were never plans for him to dance today.

                She took him to meet Yuuko and learn how to skate, and she realizes how special the fresh ice is to him. After the snow fell so heavily, there was no way the pond wouldn’t have been frozen.

                Minako has always been his favorite aunt, even if they technically are of no blood relation.

                When she’s gone the next morning, he wishes he knew where she was going.

                His life proceeds as if she never left, save for the fact he now studies alone.

                It’s nearly a week later when he decides that he can’t wait any longer to know, and if Minako-sensei won’t call, he’ll just have to figure it out himself.

                Nobody’s supposed to do spells alone, just in case something goes wrong. Spells pull magic from the atmosphere, unlike innate magic where the magic comes from another realm, specifically at the beck and call of the person.

                But mind’s eye is such a small spell, Yuuri thinks that it won’t matter just this once.  Mari is just down the hall, anyways, and they’re hiding in the onsen where the walls are paper thin. If something starts going wrong, he can just yell, and she’s come. Mari always comes to help when Yuuri is in trouble, and it makes her quite the big sister, in his opinion.

                He sits down, folding his legs together on the floor.

                Mind’s eye has no words, just concentration.

                Yuuri’s not even sure that he can figure out how to find Minako when she’s so far away, considering he has trouble when she’s barely ten meters away from him.

                Deep breath in, deep breath out, eyes fluttering shut.

                He can do this.

                In, out, in, out.

                The sensation is dizzying. He’s not sure where he is, and the room is blurry, but loud. It clears up within seconds, and Minako is humming in the way that she does when he’s done something right. Maybe, maybe this was something Yuuri had needed to do on his own.

                He can feel her coaxing him to stay and share her eyes, to watch with her.

                He still doesn’t know where she is… where they are.

                He watches anyway.

~*~

                Viktor Mikhailovich Nikiforov is going to be a living legend. He knows this, preparing for his coronation. He is a child, but he will pretend he is a man until the difference blurs even in his own mind. He is the Tsar of Rieva, no matter how unofficial that title will be for the next seven years, until Mila comes of age. Until then, Georgi will be there for him. They will navigate the rough waters of his temporary court, of the people his mother’s age who doubt his ability to rule, together.

                He already feels alone, even if he’s not technically.

                Lilia Baranovskaya couldn’t break him, of course, but he took her advice to heart. She knew what the court was capable of, knew that what happened to his mother could happen to him in an instant. He was far too young to die.

                Carefully, he had traversed the less traveled path of learning how she had been before the world had turned her heart to stone, simply by watching how she interacted with Minako Okuwaka. He hadn’t known, at first, why Kaichiyama would send anyone to this ceremony, how they even knew of it. But he can see in Lilia’s eyes as they speak, no less formally than she ever seems to be, that this hurts her to do.

                Viktor supposes that’s an appropriate response. Lilia has always felt like a second mother to him, and Yakov has been the only father figure he has ever known, considering the fact his own father lost his life before Viktor was ever born.

                Maybe Minako Okuwaka understands Lilia in a way Viktor has yet to.

                He hopes that maybe Minako can ease Lilia’s pain, because the ceremony must commence.

                There is no quiver in his body as he enters the throne room, where everyone who could show is gathered. Rieva is a large country. Everyone is watching. He can feel it, through the cameras, through their spells, through the eyes in the room.

                Viktor makes his way towards his mother’s… his throne.

                Yakov is standing there waiting for him, on Viktor’s right, the cloak his mother wore draped over his arms. He doesn’t know the other man, who’s to the left, off of the top of his head, but he’s sure he was part of his mother’s presiding court. No matter how much he doesn’t want to do this, doesn’t want to put his life in the hands of someone he doesn’t trust, he has no choice.

                If he can’t trust his people, how will they ever be able to trust him?

                He stops in front of the throne and turns to face the Rievan people, his people.

                The entire room falls silent. Yakov’s voice feels distant.

                “Now presenting Viktor Mikhailovich Nikiforov, heir to the throne of Rieva.”

~*~

                Yuuri isn’t having trouble staying in Minako’s head, oddly enough. Perhaps it’s his curiosity that holds him still.

                Viktor looks so young, but it’s obvious, that in some form, this is a crowning ceremony. Yuuri wonders what happened to the Tsarina of Rieva. Wonders why Minako, of all people, went to a crowning ceremony where no UN officials are around to legitimize the crowning.

                He concludes something has recently gone terribly wrong, and Viktor must be too young. Or at least his presiding court must be.

                The ceremony stills his mind. He watches attentively through Minako’s eyes as Viktor kneels down on one knee. Some of the ceremony is in old Rievan, and he can’t quite understand it all, but the formality is reminiscent of an oath. Yuuri welcomes the fact that he understands Rievan quite well for the rest of the ceremony.

                Yuuri admires Viktor Nikiforov, watching this coronation. He finds him attractive, in ways that he’s never thought of anyone before.

                It shocks Yuuri to the core as the man to Viktor’s left steps up behind him with a pair of swords. Viktor tilts his head forwards. His silver hair flows freely down his back. And then the other man swings the swords. Yuuri bites down on his panic, because he wants to see how this plays out. He can’t let his feelings push him out of Minako’s head.

                A collective gasp erupts from the throne room as the swords rise again.

                Everyone waits to see if Viktor will rise again.

                When Viktor rises, it’s without the length of his hair. The other man drapes the cloak over his shoulders.

                Yuuri is still biting back his feelings. Viktor does a good job of hiding his disappointment, but Yuuri can still see hints of it in his eyes.

                “Now presenting Tsar of Rieva, His Highness Viktor Mikhailovich Nikiforov.”

                Yuuri can’t hold on to mind’s eye any longer.

                Rieva slips away.

                Yuuri sits up, off of Minako’s ballet room floor. The windows are broken.

                He’ll have to tell her when she gets back.

                But for now, he lets out a quiet sob.

                He shouldn’t forget that he doesn’t know Viktor. But it seems that everyone knows of Viktor. This, this much only Yuuri and those watching know. But he doubts they paid attention to Viktor, rather than the show that Viktor gave.

                When he was much younger, he remembers being told that the prince of Rieva was going to grow into a strong, ruthless ruler that would guide their country back into the days of greatness. He remembers looking at one picture of Viktor, and knowing that no matter what they said, he didn’t want to be that ruler. That Viktor would only do what was best for his people.

                Yuuri could even see that now.

                Maybe this is why his mother still thought that he’d be an empath, even though he’d never shown any signs of that kind of magic before and couldn’t always do his spells.

                Although he wondered if that same late bloom was what had happened with Viktor, if it was why Minako had left in the middle of Spring, rather than back in the winter, in late December, right after Viktor’s birthday.

                Yuuri doesn’t know what he’d do if he had to assume the throne in only four short years. He can’t imagine being sixteen and in charge. He didn’t even know that was allowed, anyways. Perhaps he should study up on the policies of other countries.

                He expects that’s coming soon enough, anyways, that he’ll just have a head start on not being able to keep all the information straight.

                Except he’s kept everything he’s learned about Viktor straight in his mind for over four years. Can remember Rievan well enough to understand almost anything, although most other languages throw him for a major loop.

                Yuuri’s tears have yet to slow down, and until they do, he can’t leave. The glass of the windows glints all across the floor of Minako’s ballet studio, to which he only had a key because he was responsible. How they all shattered, he still doesn’t know.

                What he does know is that Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t deserve to have to spend his entire life with the weight of the world settling in on his shoulders and sad too.

                But he’s still a child, and there’s nothing he can do. Even if he were older, there wouldn’t be anything that he could do.

                He’d probably just cause a war by trying.

                So he wiped his eyes and got to his feet, to make his way through the glass.

                There was a path to the door, already clear, from what looked like the very spot Yuuri had sat in to try and do the mind’s eye spell.

                He really hoped Minako would be back soon.

                If there was anyone who could help him figure out what was going on, it would be her.

               

               


	2. 17 // 13

                Viktor doesn’t take his frustration out on Yakov or Lilia. Being Tsar is worse than he could have ever imagined, and only because he is still so young. The mirrors all show him someone he is not, someone who is not Viktor Mikhailovich Nikiforov.

                He still goes to brush his hair and finds it’s not there before he remembers what happened. What had to happen. He resents his people, for taking his life away. He misses Mama. He misses tears that have gone unshed.

                He misses having a name, rather than a title.

                Perhaps that is what makes it so melancholic, the fact he has lived this life for a little over a year.

                His birthday came and went like the sun.

                Rieva sees only what they want to see of Viktor.

                Perhaps Makkachin will make a difference.

                After all, they all see a poodle out of her, rather than the scales which glint under the lights over the ice. This is where he takes out his anger, alone, without any witnesses.

                Viktor the Tsar will be many things to Rieva, but he will never show her his fury, the worst combination of the people who raised him.

                He’s got his mother’s icy stare, but Lilia’s brash words.

                Yakov says that Viktor’s stubbornness comes from his father, but Viktor knows Yakov gave him intolerability.

                And nothing is worse than when Viktor is mad enough to cry.

                Only Makka is allowed to see this side of Viktor, because her scales will not break under the weight of his problems. Sometimes, when it’s particularly bad in the palace, she makes the effort to become the bounding poodle with the lolling tongue that Rieva knows and loves, and climbs in his bed, so that he can sleep.

                The more nights Viktor sleeps beside Makka, curled up in the brown curls of her poodle form, the more he wishes she would stay a poodle for a while.

                But he will never ask her to do such a thing, will never take the sky away from her as the world so cruelly did to him.

                One day, he will show them all the rath of Tsar Viktor Mikhailovich Nikiforov.

                Mama deserves justice, and it will be by Viktor’s own hand that she gets her justice.

                Maybe, in this way, Viktor will feel as if he’s got justice for the loss of his childhood.

                Until then, the only ones to understand are Makkachin and the ice. The ice knows no difference between anger and admiration, and yet, it seems the ice is the only place where Viktor knows both.

                With skates, he can fly. Not for long, and not far, but the ice is a part of him. Has always been a part of him, with the way his magic showed up.

                He wonders what Mama might have said, if she were still alive.

                He wonders what the people would say, if they knew of the cold nature of his soul.

                He wonders how much farther he has to fall before he becomes a monster.

                Maybe, something deep inside of him, has always been a monster, and Viktor’s only recognizing it now because he’s broken.

                Those words are easier to think that to speak.

                After moving up from Tsarevich to Tsar, after losing his mother, after giving away his self-worth, there is no trace of Viktor Mikhailovich Nikiforov left here. This Viktor is only an empty shell, waiting to be reborn.

                Viktor Mikhailovich might have believed in a brighter future, after the darkness was flushed out.

                Now, this Viktor believes in rebirth alone.

                From the ashes of the old come the new in blazing glory.

                He wonders what will be said about the fact his blaze is ice cold.

~*~

                Minako has yet to replace her windows.

                Yuuri doesn’t understand why.

                They work on ballet, on dancing in general, on bookwork. Not spells, even simple ones like mind’s eye.

                He often wonders why, but he’s never brave enough to ask.

                Then she sits him down in the middle of the room, and tells him to focus. To find mind’s eye yet again. He’s out of practice, and when he finally grabs hold of her mind, he slips out too quickly to even see anything clearly.

                “You’re such a sour little empath, Yuuri.”

                He notices her lack of an honorific. He also notices the word ‘empath’. Neither make much sense, until they sink in. This is a conversation without grace, without carefully minced words. This is Minako making him understand that he’s the one who charges everything.

                He knows better than to push past the limits she sets for him now. His emotions are always unstable.

                Yuuri wonders if this means things will change around him.

                He’s surprised when they don’t.

                “It’s only Viktor, isn’t it?” Minako asks, but the words are laced with heavier meanings. Yuuri, before this point, has never known someone in the position he is, other than Mari. It’s always been Minako who watches the subtle things change.

                When they return to the palace, he shows her the pictures. None show Viktor with his short hair. The pictures are all older, but the shows of his effort to get them are spread around the room, messy instead of clean like always. Yuuri stares longingly at all of them, and as he looks at every single picture, it seems like there’s something wrong.

                The only face of Viktor’s that Yuuri remembers in excruciating detail is the sorrow masked in his brevity at his crowning in Rieva.

                Yuuri could tell even now that Viktor hadn’t wanted to be ruler like this.

                He didn’t know what had happened one year ago, when Minako left, and when he found his version of Viktor with the only cast of mind’s eye that he’d ever managed to get right, and nothing had changed.

                Minako calls for Mari, who lazes in shortly. She likely didn’t have a choice.

                The movement that Minako creates is all grace and elegance, is otherworldly in nature.

                This is why they made her leave after only her first Benois de la Danse. Her life was killed by the magic that fueled her.

                Mari knows the story all too well. She can see the signs in Yuuri, of magic that could end him accidentally.

                She stays of her own volatile, rather than because Minako wills her feet to stay put.

                “You have to watch him, when he tries this. Make him stop before he’s too far in.” Minako murmurs, laying her palms face up on the ground.

                Mari guides his palms to Minako’s, and pushes his eyes shut. Evidently, she can anticipate what’s about to happen.

                Yuuri doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, his palms pressed into Minako’s, Mari watching to make sure he doesn’t fall too far gone.

                He recognizes the feeling of someone else’s mind, although whose exactly is unclear.

                Whatever this is, can’t be happening right now.

                The air feels stale.

                He’s got too much control.

                Too much is hanging in the air, and nothing else moves.

                Except for Yuuri.

                The room reminds him of the Rievan throne room.

                The woman on the floor, looks very similar to Tsar Viktor Nikiforov.

                Yuuri starts to put it together.

                He knows all the current rulers, or diplomats, in the cases of Savoie and Statrina, are.

                This is the late Tsarina Vasiliya Aleksandrovna Nikiforova.

                The room speeds by him now.

                He sees hushed talking, between whomever he’s replaced, and an older man.

                He sees tears fall, so many tears.

                He sees a small dragon, fierce and loving, growing, learning.

                Yuuri falls back flat, while Mari’s the one panicking for a change. Mari’s cradling his head, watching for his eyes to open back as Minako makes a noise of discontent. Being a medium for these kinds of things leave her with a throbbing headache, but the fact Yuuri could see told her enough.

                The fact he hasn’t opened his eyes yet tells her enough. It’s a new strain, a new stress to his body. He’s just in shock from the first time, because his chest heaves and falls the same way it does when he has a panic attack. Next time, they’ll keep cold water nearby, to reduce the shock of falling away. For all intents and purposes, Yuuri is an empath through and through.

                The fact Mari has yet to pull on the strings of magic, past the spells that fall somewhere between science and the arcane, only means that Minako will never stop worrying about the chances of something else growing, taking root in Yuuri in place of Mari.

                Anyone else would worry for Mari, in a place like this, where the onsen carry good omens in the water and the lanterns always float straight up, never sideways. She is a rarity among Kaichiyamans, who seem to always have a second part of themselves.

                Minako knows Mari doesn’t need a second piece, in the same way she doesn’t need anyone to share her burdens with. This is the kind of strong-willed that Mari is.

                Her independence will never be a phase, because she’s taken care of herself in all situations. She paves her own way, no matter the title attached to her name. She stabbed all the holes in her ears herself, alone in her room with a needle and a bottle of sake she shouldn’t have had at fifteen. At seventeen, she took sewing shears to her hair. Now she paints it blue, to see the smile on Yuuri’s face.

                Magic is missing her, rather than she missing magic.

                They can give Yuuri time to piece things to together and wake up, but right here, this is the Yuuri who doesn’t idolize Viktor Nikiforov, the Tsar of Rieva. This is the Yuuri that wants to understand him, the Yuuri that Minako sees all the time. Perhaps she’ll be able to get Hiroko and Toshiya to understand soon enough.

                His interest in Viktor is not his weakness. Perhaps, it’ll be his biggest asset, in the few short years before he’s being sent along to courts around the globe, for UN discussions. While others preen on the Tsar, known only as the Tsarevich officially, he’ll be the one who paves the way out of the closely watched, almost closed system that Kaichiyama operates in.

                Yuuri isn’t made to be noble, Minako knows, but nobility suits Yuuri in its own way, in how conveniently his status allows him to follow. He can be as warm as the ocean in the middle of summer, or as cold as his ice rinks. These are the things that Minako teaches Yuuri, because in the end, the knowledge all turns out to be a bitter end with the end of the year.

                Hiroko listens, lets Minako shape and mold Yuuri’s mind so he can understand it, and something still hasn’t clicked in her head. It’s very likely he’ll be taking Toshiya’s throne one day. So he needs to understand the game.

                Court life isn’t all that different from dancing, she’s learned in the last twenty years, helping to teach Mari and tend around to Hiroko and the onsen. Minako lives and breathes with movement, and she watches as it moves through the courts the way it used to move her on stage. Everything breaks down in playing the part asked of you, in being flexible enough to hold when they twist and bend the situation. A many of the lesser ballerina broke toes and ankles or even legs on a daily basis.

                Minako has never once been broken. Perhaps she is where Mari has pulled her strength from.

                Yuuri, poor Yuuri, can’t get it through his head that he’s strong too.

                Perhaps she’ll have to get Yuuko to show him on the ice. The ice is the only thing he believe in, aside from Viktor Nikiforov.

                He’ll wake up shortly, and she’ll send him to Yuuko and the ice. Yuuri will see, even if it kills him.

~*~

                It’s Yakov who takes responsibility for the troubles of being royalty.

                Yakov, who has always torn his own life apart to put a Nikiforov back together. Perhaps this is why he’s run everyone off.

                He never lets himself get as close to Viktor as he had when Viktor was younger. Not now.  It’s cruel, but the Tsar must realize the things he cannot afford young.

                Georgi and Mila will be there for him, even when no one else is. Anatoly will betray him, Dimitri will betray him, Orlov will do anything to watch the Tsar go down young. These are the members of the up and coming presiding court of Rieva, and Yakov knows there are many more who think the same way. He watched when they were children, watched as the other children discredited the Tsarevich just as their parents did.

                He knows Viktor’s rath, and he needs Viktor to realize that until they all know it, they will try to undermine him at every possible opportunity.

                This are woes of being in charge that Viktor shouldn’t have known until he was much older, much wiser.

                Savoie doesn’t play in politics the way that other countries do.

                Savoie is only a place of neutrality.

                Yakov decides that Viktor can be allowed cohorts with Christophe Giacometti. There’s no trouble in a friend with no pull, no side in a war, and certainly no political power. Christophe is just a child, in the way that most of the rulers that Viktor was always expected to work with are.

                Out of them all, Viktor is the only one currently in power, and there are still years ahead of them of being a child.

                Viktor is still learning, but even with all that he can learn alone, there are some lessons that require a friend. Or friends.

                Yakov had to take Viktor’s childhood away, had to make him relinquish the part of himself he liked the most, the hair that reminded him of his mother.

                The least he can offer Viktor is a friend.

                Halfway happy is better than not happy at all, in Yakov’s experience with the Nikiforov family.

                It seems that Viktor follows this trend.

                Christophe bounds around even at age fifteen. It’s hard for Viktor to be empty when he’s so happy. Viktor can’t be cold and solemn with Chris.

                Especially not when they both are stumbling over words in the common tongue.

                It sounds less harsh than Rievan, but still colder than whatever Christophe says to his parents, whom Viktor doesn’t know, has never met.

                Apparently, they thought it was good for their son to travel.

                Viktor’s not going to complain, not when first impressions are everything, and he feels like he’s found someone who might get it.

                The guest quarters aren’t made for children, but Viktor tries his hardest in that week to make the palace more like a home than the prison he’s always found it.

                He swears he’s seen Mila bouncing on her toes at the things coming in the doors. The computers, the phones, the couches are all breaches of tradition, and most of the others scoff, the same way their parents scoff.

                Rieva has a fortune already. He thinks that just this once he’s due a little comfort.

                Christophe is lanky, and he trips over his own feet. He slips on the ice Viktor has always known to avoid. More than once in the week Chris stays, he has to stop and help keep a head full of golden curls from bashing against the ground. It’s funny, to everyone but Christophe.

                “How do you do it, Viktor?”

                “What, exactly?”

                “This Tsar shit. Diplomacy is boring.”

                It’s not a conversation Viktor wants to have.

                He’s not good at this ‘Tsar shit’ as Christophe calls it.

                They don’t talk about it.

                Christophe knows a touchy subject from a good one. One day, he’ll figure out what happened to Viktor. But for the time being, he doesn’t have to know why. Instead, he settles for teaching Viktor Frasian instead.

                “Je suis Christophe.”

                “Je suis… Viktor?”

                He laughs, but nods. “There you go. Sort of. You’ll figure it out the more you practice. Maybe you can teach me Rivean next time.”

                To Viktor, the fact that there will be a next time, that there is a chance of a next time, means more than anything.

                Christophe is his first real friend.

                The ice jumps with him the next time he goes skating.

                He wonders if Christophe skates in Savoie.

~*~

                Yuuri’s not sure what to do with everything he’s learned.

                He knows of dragons, and as much as he wants one, he can’t see one thriving in the ever-changing climate of Kaichiyama. The winters barely get cold enough for his pond to freeze consistently. Dragons live in the cold.  Dragons thrive in the cold, because of all the heat they carry.

                Dragons carry the magic of fire, and they can’t regulate their temperatures quite like humans.

                As it turns out, Yuuri doesn’t even have to ask about finding a dragon.

                One comes to him.

                Minako says his emotions project, unlike other people’s, because he’s an empath. He wonders if his want was what he projected, or his sadness. Even though he has no clue if the dragon he saw belongs to Viktor, he feels fairly sure about guessing that it does. He names his dragon after Viktor, and for the first time in his life, he fights so that his parents won’t take him away.

                They don’t even seem surprised, oddly enough.

                Vicchan is a part of the family now, whether he knows it or not.

                Minako reminds him, when the worry washes over Yuuri about Vicchan being able to live, that dragons are loyal until death, and that dragons always have a secondary form, some type of mammal that can regulate its own body temperature, just to be safe.

                There is a miniature poodle on Yuuri’s bed when he arrives in his room at the onsen.

                Even without the gleaming scales, he knows this is Vicchan.

                He doubts, whether in dragon form or dog form, he’ll ever call him Viktor, even if that’s his name. It makes thinking too confusing.

                Vicchan it is, then.

                Hopefully, he won’t mind Yuuri’s blue glasses pressing into his back, because there’s no resisting the urge to pull Vicchan up tight and close.

                Vicchan didn’t come because of want or sadness.

                Vicchan came to ease Yuuri’s pain.

                The coming months weren’t going to be easy on him, with his empathy.

                There’s got to be someone to keep him from exploding.

                Being Yuuri’s familiar, in a way, will be more rewarding than any kind of freedom he would have had otherwise.

                Yuuri sleeps more peacefully that night than he has in a long time. Minako steps in to check on him, in the darkest hours of the night, and leaves content, with a smile on her lips.

                Yuuri will be a strong ruler, one day.

                As long as they can get him there.

~*~

                Viktor longs to explore his magic.

                The spells have always been easy, in the same way he can read a passage and recite its contents back without a hitch. The ice, Yakov says is too dangerous.

                Things can go wrong, without proper tutelage.

                He’s going to try anyways. He’s always expected to be somebody else as the Tsar. He wants to feel like Viktor Mikhailovich Nikiforov again, rather than His Majesty, Tsar Viktor Nikiforov.

                It’s almost funny how they all forget where he came from now that he’s on the throne.

                As it turns out, the ice can also be snow, frost. The ice will listen, will build itself in Viktor’s image if he asks.

                Elemental magic is only asking, after all. The rest, it does itself.

                He builds a throne, and lets it fall and melt. He builds a small replica of the castle, and shatters it into thousands of tiny shards.

                Being human is what makes him a monster.

                They’ve always reminded him that even Lucifer was once an angel, once God’s favorite.

                Somehow, Viktor finds comfort in knowing that even demons can be beautiful.

                He will not be the monster they want him to be.

                No, he will be something much worse.

                His favorite thing in the world are surprises.

                Viktor can only hope that the world will be surprised at the role he’s decided to play.

                Nobody will hurt him anymore, if they love and fear him.

                He hopes Mama would have been proud.

                He knows Lilia will be proud.

                Yakov will be considered a great, after this.

                Viktor’s father was considered a great, too.

                Viktor wants to be a legend.

               

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my current absolute fav, but not all updates are gonna be nearly as fast as this one! Again, comments and kudos give me life, so leave those if you're feeling good, and come hit me up on [tumblr](http://infinitehearts.tumblr.com) if you wanna talk about these poor babes.


	3. 18 // 14

                The court is cruel. His suit doesn’t fit right, his crown sits awkwardly on his head. The snares of the nobles get to him every single time.

                Yuuri feels sick to his stomach.

                The ground under his feet rumbles.

                Minako chides him under her breath, softly, and the floor ceases to shake.

                So maybe his mother and his father weren’t too far off course, deciding to expose him to the atmosphere of the court so early. Guilt bubbles in his stomach, and he thanks the world for not including consequence for this one. Or maybe he’s yet to project his guilt strongly enough to watch the consequence manifest. Being an empath is far too needy.

                His mind is constantly running, and he can’t take the medicines. Being numb to his mind, and thus his magic, drives him stir crazy.

                Even though it would be easy to take the pills, to cut himself off from all his anxiety, he can’t do it. He can’t feel empty. He’s spent the past year with Minako trying, going to doctors on the other end of Kaichiyama in efforts to find someone who knows of something that will work.

                He couldn’t help the dejection he felt when no doctor or magic specialist in the country could help.

                Minako still insists he’s strong enough to handle it. She doesn’t know that he pushes his limits on the ice every night, once his family think he’s asleep. The winter was the best, when the pond was frozen over, but he doesn’t mind Ice Castle. It feels like irony, that he’s the prince skating in a place that proclaims itself a castle, which in no way could compare to the actual castle. But it’s close to the onsen, and it feels more like a home than the castle ever has.

                Takashi doesn’t like him, he knows, and Yuuri is thankful for Yuuko. She’s the only reason he can get in at all hours of the night. Yuuri wouldn’t dare say anything about the fact Takashi doesn’t like him, wouldn’t dare get him in trouble with his family. Just because Yuuri is the prince doesn’t mean anything. A title doesn’t mean he deserves the world.

                He often wonders though, if Takashi is just jealous. If he’s afraid he’ll lose Yuuko to Yuuri, because he’s normal and Yuuri is the prince. He wishes he was less meek. If Yuuri were less meek, he’d be able to tell Takashi to his face that there’s no way that Yuuko would ever leave him, even though he’s not a noble like she is. Takashi means more to her than anything else. Being the owner of the local ice rink would be enough for her, for the rest of her life, if it meant that she could have him.

                Sometimes, Yuuri wishes that he could have a life that mundane too. He realizes that all the time he thought he had a crush on Yuuko, it was just love of the future she’d have. He didn’t want her, but normalcy.

                All he can think about that night, alone on the ice with the fewest lights on as possible, is if maybe everyone else feels the same way.

                His parents have enough that they wouldn’t have to do anything, but they still run an onsen and do as much there as they can around court.

                Mari doesn’t bother with the kimonos and dresses she should wear, let alone with social etiquette. Her hair is the shortest he’s seen in the court, and on top of that, it’s partially blue. She regularly shows up with more holes in her ears, and Yuuri can’t remember their parents ever chiding her about it.

                And then there’s Viktor. Sure, he’s the Tsar of Rieva now, whether anyone knows it or not, but Yuuri can only think about how distraught he looked getting crowned. It was months after the death of the Tsarina, and yet, Viktor looked empty.

                It’s too much to think about all at once, because before he knows it, his face is pressed against the ice, even though he almost always lands his triple toe loop.

                He should really get up, but he can’t be bothered. Instead, Yuuri lies on his back on the ice for a long time, thinking about what it would take to make Viktor smile, just once, like he meant it.

                When he finally sits up, he presses his finger to the ice, and doodles a few hearts, watching as the lines his finger make set into the ice and look just like he carved them with the blades on his skates or some kind of knife.

                He ends up going back home, to bed, after that. He had to be up early in the morning, to practice his magic with Minako. She was still trying to help him learn how to relive events based on their emotions, without using someone else as a medium. He’s not doing too well, and there’s not any more she can do to help, seeing as she’s not an empath too. They’ve also just started borrowing emotions, and swaying the emotions of a room.

                Both seem to have side effects that make learning them difficult.

                Yuuri can’t seem to take emotions without giving something in return.

                He can sway a room, but can never let go of the emotion without drawing it back to himself.

                Minako won’t stop working him until he learns, though.

~*~

                Viktor’s mind strays from his work, more often than not.  It’s not his fault that politics are so boring. He’s capable, of course, of planning the budgets and writing proposals and acting diplomatic. He just doesn’t like it all very much.

                He misses his mother. Perhaps, that’s the worst part of all. She should have had the time to teach him, rather than being poisoned. And she was still so young too, in his eyes. Maybe forty-five wasn’t the youngest she could have been, but she was so much younger than that in how she acted. No matter how little Viktor can remember, he can’t forget her.

                It’s a terrible wish, he knows, but he wishes he could forget her. Forget the way she always knew exactly what to say, forget the way that she’d never told him to be anyone other than Viktor.

                He doesn’t let himself cry in front of people, at all.

                But it’s been two years now and they have yet to figure out who murdered her. The list of blood magic users in the castle is so small, after all, and is even smaller when narrowed down to those who have the talent to make interference in their spells virulent.

                Viktor knows he deserves the chance to cry.

                In the safety of Lilia’s estate, cities away from the castle, he lets it all out.

                He never took her for the motherly type, but he’d never thought Yakov would want to be a father either.

                The stories she tells him, holding him close in a way he doubts anyone would have ever expected her to, make him feel less alone. He doesn’t try to understand how much she still hurts inside. He doubts he’ll ever be able to.

                There is no love in the world like a mother’s love. A mother’s love is so strong she’ll do anything for her baby. Even if that means giving up the coveted prima position in the Bolshoi Ballet.

                Viktor can only imagine the heartbreak of losing your life and your child.

                Understanding washes over him, suddenly.

                The court is a nasty, dog eat dog, place in Rieva.

                Lilia pushes him to the bone in ballet drills, even thought he’ll never be a dancer.

                On the surface, it’s a ballet lesson meant to get his mind off his mother. But the core of everything is understanding the façade.

                He can be the man the people all want him to be.

                Beautiful, distant, and vengeful.

                The only way they’re going to believe him, though, is if the act is so good that he can fool himself.

                Who cares that he’s made of ice if he pretends that he’s made of diamonds instead?

                Lilia clucks her tongue somewhat approvingly.

                No matter the consequences, he’ll do whatever it takes.

                Losing himself is the only way to find the person that the country needs. If he lets go on his own terms now, it’ll be better in the long run. He’s already had so much stripped from him by the world, more would be far too much to bear. There isn’t a future where things go well for him, after all this. There are versions where things are manageable, and that’s all that matters.

                Everyone has a breaking point. There isn’t a reason to deny it. In politics, the world is man eat man. No matter how young he is, how diplomatic he is, how true he sticks to his country, they will all look at him with pity, look at him as if he’s weak, an incompetent ruler if he doesn’t do something.

                He’s trying, but he’s not trying hard enough, evidentially.

                Half of being the Tsar is pretending that it doesn’t faze him.

                He can feel Lilia correcting his posture. Her hands aren’t gentle, not in the way that his mother’s hands would have been. It’s not a suggestion, but a demand. Once, perhaps, the weight would have been maddening. Now, it’s calming.

                As much as losing his mother hurt him, it let him grow. The sorrow is deep rooted, and he doubts the pain will ever truly go away, but if he lets the pain turn bitter, he’ll lose the part of himself that will honor her on the throne.

                In this, he does as Lilia does. He pushes his sorrow to his core, makes it his martyr. He feeds his anger and his pain, and he waits.

                The day will come when he’ll look over the world, and know that it all lies at in his, at his beck and call. A final tribute to the late Vasiliya Aleksandrovna Nikiforova.

                The burn in his muscles makes him smirk.

                What will they all say when they see him now?

                He’s not finding himself any longer.

                Now he’s been found, and he refuses to remain unseen.

                Georgi and Mila will forgive him, eventually.

                This is for them, as much as it is for him.

                They don’t deserve the pain he’s been through. They deserve the best of the royal life, and if he’s miserable, well, that’s none of their concern.

~*~

 

                Yuuri finds himself the most alone in court.

                The royal family of Taizhai is the largest he’s ever seen. There’s so many of them. Their titles elude him, and he’d very much prefer that the words in the common tongue were acceptable to use. But instead, he just stays quiet. It’s the easiest way to keep his powers in check, after all. Focusing in, on only his own emotions, means they stay calm, for the most part.

                The Taizhaians all buzz in his head, no matter how tight he pulls his magic. Oh, how he wishes that Minako were here, to help him keep them out.

                But she can’t always be there to hold his hand and focus the movement in, make it tolerable for him to make sense of how these people feel.

                He folds in on himself, swallowing hard. He can do this. It’s only a few people. There’s no need to worry.

                There’s every reason to worry. If he doesn’t make a good impression, Taizhai might reject the trade proposal. Taizhai might take up arms against Kaichiyama. Taizhai might make his entire life a mess.

                The little boy nearest to him shoots him a big, toothy grin. It reminds him of Vicchan, of sharp canine teeth that might eat him alive. It’s the holes, he’s sure. The girls all look somewhat sympathetic, as if the ominous nature of that smile is reality, and not Yuuri letting his mind wander again. The only other boy of the group just shoves him and pulls Yuuri into a side hug.

                “I’m Phichit! Do you like hamsters? I have three!” The words are in clumsy Kaichiyaman, not Taizhain or the common tongue, and they lilt so much that Yuuri has trouble running them through his head and understanding.

                Yuuri’s far too shy to say anything back, when formality has been so blatantly disregarded. He swallows and moves out of Phichit’s grasp, before running off towards his room, towards Vicchan.

                Once he reaches his chambers, it’s nice to curl up and press his face into a mound of brown curly poodle. Vicchan never seems to mind when he panics and cries. He sits and licks his face every chance he gets, and well, when Vicchan accidentally breathes fire, he always makes sure to keep it away from the furniture.

                His dragon is the only armor he has from the world. Big or small, scales or fur, Vicchan is always there to protect him. The ice is nothing, in comparison.

                And yet, strangely enough, his tear stained cheeks still blaze pink when he lifts his face up for the first time. Yuuri can’t ever recall being this overwhelmed up until now in the time he’s had Vicchan.

                He supposes the ice is a different type of stress relief.

                Ice Castle is across town, as far from the castle as possible. Maybe, if he goes now, Yuuri will be late enough untying his skates after he calms down he can stay in the onsen for the night. The little bed he has there feels more comforting than his chambers in the palace ever do. The onsen is his home, in his heart.

                He’d never dare say such a thing aloud.

                The heaviness in his heart settles along behind him underfoot. Nobody else comes out at these hours, for whatever reason, and the footprints stick close. There’s no trace of Yuuri a few meters back, but anyone watching would catch the gleam of the ice he leaves in his wake, for a few, fleeting moments.

                If he never knows, he’ll never have to worry about it.

                Thin ice melts quickly, after all.

~*~

                The whole affair feels so… formal.

                Viktor’s back is rigid as he perches on the edge of the throne, looking down upon the child knelt at his feet. He feels much like an imposter, sitting like his mother did, on the throne. He’s managing though, and the room feels much more swayed in his favor.

                His word is law, after all, even now, when the only sounding board in the court is really Georgi. His court, his council, for the most part stay detached, let the young Tsar do as he pleases. They see him as Vasiliya’s son, as the Tsarevich he hasn’t been for upwards of two years. Much of _his_ court are still learning, have time he couldn’t possibly.

                One day, he will be allowed to openly grieve. Until then, Makkachin will lie at his foot and she will carry the burdens he cannot shoulder. She will be strong, and he will do everything in his power to be strong beside her.

                The Tsar and his dragon do make a very imposing picture, even when she’s playing poodle.

                It’s said it’s the eyes.

                Except for the little boy, whom has risen without a word out of Viktor’s mouth, and is moving away with distaste.

                “Dogs are smelly! Cats are better!” he proclaims while crossing his arms.

                Viktor, despite himself, cracks a smile. “Makka is a dragon, actually.”

                The remark rings bitterly in his own ears. He sounds like any other Tsar.

                Yakov had only told him the castle was deciding whether to take in the boy with the golden hair. Perhaps, this was meant to deter Viktor, rather than get such a young child’s hopes up. Dirt smeared across his face, clothes tattered and well worn, although too large, it’s obvious that there’s no chance of this boy doing anything without a fight. It’s that very quality that draws Viktor in. It ignites some spark in him, some kind of hideous desire that he didn’t know was there before.

                “What’s your name?”

                The Rievan people wanted him to make a martyr of his mother, wanted to see him rule without an air of a doubt. Viktor is far too relaxed, too gentle to truly rule in that way they so desperately desire. Instead, he’s grown into an excellent actor and simply refuses to be made a fool of.  This moment, however, is the first show of his true disaster. It’s everything they want from him, and yet, he cannot bear to give in.

                Perhaps this was the response that Yakov was looking for.

                “Yuri Nikolayevich Plisetsky.”

                Yakov gives a grunt, and the kid falls timid. Viktor’s always known him to give his opinions openly, but he’s not quite sure as to the dynamic of this. It’s not long into a hushed conversation, however, that he can almost feel the spark blaze back to life in Yuri.

                _“That asshole left me and mama. I refuse to take his name.”_

                His seething slips off him like venom on a snake’s tongue. It takes hold of the darkness that still inhabits a dark corner of Viktor’s mind, and the words ar on his tongue before he’s truly thought them through.

                “Yakov, take him to the servants’ quarters. I think we’ll keep him. Maybe a little training will do his childishness good.”

                It’s a low blow, and Viktor knows it. But he can’t seem to bring himself to care in the moment. Yuri won’t go hungry, will always have a bed to sleep in and clothes to wear, will be cared for when he is sick, and is certain to have a better life in Rieva than he might have had in neighboring countries. In time, the boy can become Viktor’s personal servant, and he’ll understand that these things mean nothing but a little bit of fun. Viktor can’t help that he’s often too stubborn for his own good. He needs someone who can throw the same bitterness in his face when he can’t let go. Yuri will be good for him. And perhaps, along the way, he can help provide shape to the monster, make him fit for something other than mere grunt work.

                Perhaps this sentiment is cruel, but there is no other way to survive within the midst of the court. Tolerance on Yuri’s end won’t be without reward.

~*~

                Yuuri feels as if he’s falling apart.

                Never does he ache this way, but never has he flown the way he did either. Nothing is the same as it was before, but he doesn’t wish it any other way.

                The ache of longing is inevitable when he finally pulls himself from the ice again.

                He thinks that Phichit is shocked, hopefully, just shocked coming from somewhere so humid and where the heat would keep the ice painfully soft without someone constantly refreezing it, on top of resurfacing it to keep the ice smooth.

                Sure, he trips over Phichit’s title, and maybe he’s not so great with understanding him across the accent of his native Taizhain, but this is the one thing that Yuuri can do right.

                It’s a very new feeling to have to try and translate emotions, in order to get the point, but the feelings are the same in his bones. He pushes himself to let calm roll out in waves, although calm is far from how he’s feeling. It works, even if he doesn’t understand how it works this time when he’s inconsistent, failing a majority of the times he bothers to try.

                If only swaying his own emotions were so simple, anyway. That would be so much more help.

                “Two?”

                It’s not the number of rotations Yuuri managed, that’s for sure. And even garbled by a heavy accent, Yuuri speaks the common tongue so fluently it’s nearly impossible to tell he didn’t grow up speaking it daily.

                “What?”

                He takes to wiping the lenses of his glasses on his shirttail. That should get most of the streaks of sweat off. It’s the only way he’s not going to start fidgeting and tell just how nervous he is. Ice Castle is safe to Yuuri, and fun for Yuuri, and he just wanted to see if he could make some common ground between himself and Phichit, not scare him away.

                “I’ve never met anyone with two roots of magic before you, Yuuri! That’s so cool!” Phichit finally relays in a squeal.

                When Yuuri faints, Vicchan catches him. The rink wouldn’t be able to hold him if he were anywhere near the size of most dragons, and even at only 45 meters long it’s a tight fit inside. There’s no way he could ever leave in dragon form. But Vicchan doesn’t mind spending his days a miniature poodle if it means being there for Yuuri.

                He holds still, head tilted towards Phichit, in an attempt to get him to check on Yuuri. Yuuko would be better, because she’s seen Yuuri do these kinds of things before, but she’s not around.

                The eleven-year-old is hesitant, but climbs his scales gently, up to Yuuri. He pokes him in the cheek until his eyes open and helps Yuuri down shortly after.

                Vicchan returns to being a poodle, and as soon as it’s safe… well, safer, starts yapping in Yuuri’s face in discontent.

                “Oh, hush Vicchan before you singe something. I know, I know. I’ll go to Minako about it now.”

                The acknowledgement is enough to quiet him, because he has a feeling that Phichit will make Yuuri keep his word.

                Yuuri’s world always seems to be turning on it’s head, and yet, there’s no doubts that it will always get more difficult. Vicchan can smell the stress on Yuuri, after all.

                He’s always been different, anyhow. Where others would revel in the power, Yuuri shies away. Until Yuuri can accept himself, with all his gifts, Vicchan plans to stick around. He’s lived for ages, guiding, so surely, he can do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh this took forever, and i didn't even write something else inbetween to make it make sense that i took forever? but praise and comments give me life and inspo so please leave comments!, also there's some art on my tumblr (infinitehearts) so feel free to check that all out!


	4. 19 // 15

               There are certain perks to castle life, and certain drawbacks. The clothes he’s wearing are new, but he’d prefer to still be barefoot. He’s all alone. He supposes that’s what his Dedushka meant, when he pushed him out into the street as the car passed by.

                He’d prefer to still be starving. That’s the way Yuri is. He doesn’t care about any of this.

                He doesn’t even think that he cares about the ragdoll at his feet. Potya, for all her love, can be a real bitch. Even a year later, he can’t help but hate Viktor’s guts. He doesn’t care that he’s the Tsar. All he cares is that he’s been turned into little more than a glorified manservant. Mila is the only person in the castle remotely his age, and all she seems to care about is using him to test her makeup out on. He has decided girls are the worst, most of the time. She does come play with him every once in a while, when Viktor is in meetings.

                At least it’s just old Yakov who teaches him his lessons for now. Lilia Baranovskaya scares him, and he knows that soon enough, Viktor will hand him over to her full time. She’s already the one to send him to his chambers at night and escort him to meals. As fond as the fool is of Lilia, Yuri can’t figure out why. She’s crude, in his opinion. She knows only how to push, and no matter his protest, she keeps his hair religiously cut.

                It’s the only piece of Mama he has left, and he does not take kindly to losing it. Not even if it means being allowed to keep Potya. Dedushka promised to visit, and he hasn’t come. It often means he suspects the worse about his health, but Yuri knows that Nikolai is a fighter. And thus, he stays in the castle, surrounded by idiots.

                He hates to think about the things that he’d be doing if he weren’t in the castle. The castle, for all his complaining, isn’t actually that bad, because he gets warm meals any time he asks, is taken care of when he does something stupid and gets hurt, and doesn’t have to resort to stealing. He’s lonely, but it’s not Dedushka’s fault that he’s old and his back is hurt. There’s nothing wrong with that. _Mama_ was supposed to take care of Yuri, after all. Except she’s gone now.

                Occasionally, if he’s feeling worse than usual, he’ll go sob in his room. Someone always comes to comfort him. He can’t seem to turn them away.

                Maybe, it’s because he feels sympathy for Viktor, in some small and strange way. He can’t possibly hope to understand why, but he thinks the Tsarina’s death still hangs over their heads, over all of Rieva. Whatever magic that took her away could still come and take Viktor too.

                It’s odd to think that Viktor is the Tsar. It’s odd to think that Viktor is the Tsar. Names are powerful. Perhaps, he feels it’s strange because he knows Viktor slightly beyond the façade. He’s watched the fool cry.

                Viktor is just that, a fool. Yuri can tell that in this lifetime, he’s not ever going to be fit to be Tsar. But he wouldn’t dare say so out loud. The people look to Viktor for hope. Yuri isn’t going to take that away from them, not when he’s noticed that even Yakov and Lilia have pinned their hope on Viktor.

                No matter how many arguments he gets into with Viktor, or Yakov, or even Lilia, he knows the feeling of hopelessness that pervades the stone walls and the plaster used to make the castle feel homier, and he wouldn’t dare try to take away the only hope left.

                As if he’d ever admit it, but he doesn’t want to take _Viktor’s_ hope away. Viktor is the only hope there is for Rieva’s future. If he doesn’t believe in it, then no one else can.

                There’s nothing left for Yuri if Rieva burns. His life is in the hands of the castle.

                As much as he loathes the feeling, he doesn’t want to leave the castle. His Dedushka did what was best for him. He’s sure that if he asked, no one would have any problems with moving his Dedushka to the castle either. He doesn’t want to owe them any more than he already does, or he would.

                Yuri knows that Viktor won’t hold anything he does against him. Maybe that’s what he hates the most.

~*~

                Yuuri is old enough to join the court, according to Mari. He knows why. At 15, they could send him off to be geisha. But he is not a girl, and he is royal, so they would do no such thing.

                He is afraid. The courts will eat him alive if they know he is weak. Minako and Mari have been there for him until now, but he knows they can’t protect him forever. There is no more time for learning, simply doing.

                It’s not wise, to go in unprepared. Except, Yuuri knows that he’ll never be prepared.

                That’s the thing about anxiety. He’s never ready for anything. Social situations just happen to be the worst.

                 No matter how long Minako preens over him, he has no suit of armor. He will never be like Viktor Nikiforov, the Tsar of Rieva who took over at a mere sixteen. The masses will ignore him, rather than adore him, in the end. Yuuri is as sure of this as he’s sure of his crush on Viktor. He will crash and burn. Confidence and cunning just aren’t him. Perhaps, if he’s lucky, his parents will marry him off to someone he can tolerate when he comes of age and he’ll lounge on the throne while someone competent deals with stately affairs.

                How would he even gain Viktor’s attention, let alone his heart, if he can’t even survive one domestic court outing?

                Mari’s entrance into court was far more elaborate than this, since she had to be presented as a new hand for marriage. At least he doesn’t have to go through a party where he’s the sole focus of everyone’s attention.

                Minako is having none of it, either way. He knows better than to move when she puts him in a chair in front of her. She slicks his hair away from his face, covers up the acne that seems to spread across his face more and more each day. It’s all about making him presentable. And unless she’s too far gone on sake, the only definition of presentable she knows is perfection. It’s why he’s so lean right now. All the practice so his dancing is impeccable has to pay off somewhere for how tiring it is.

                In the mirror, Yuuri knows he’s still just forgettable. Just Yuuri, not someone worth of being the shinnō, no matter what Minako does to him. The shame wells up inside his head like the plague. It’s awful, being an empath. Or, rather, an empath without any control over his feelings. It seems like everything is so much more overpowering in his head than in any normal person’s.

                He’s smart enough to realize there’s always been something wrong with his head, and he’s smart enough to watch his family walk on eggshells around him sometimes. But what they don’t realize is he’s also smart enough to self-diagnose. After all, the internet makes everything seconds away.

                Other empaths do this too, so he’s not crazy.

                It’s just anxiety, not the end of his sanity.

                But they won’t help him. Not like they’d help someone like Mari or even Minako, if they had anxiety. The pills would suppress his magic. Here, they can’t do that. The doctors can’t take his magic away to make his illness subside.

                It’s superstition. It’s not worth it, to feel like he’s going insane and feel everyone else in his head at the same time. It’s not worth it. He wants to feel like he’s normal. Mari has lived without magic for a long time and she’s never been anything less. Why would cutting himself off be anything different?

                Maybe, if he weren’t royal, he could talk them into giving him the pills.

                It’s such a shame that he’ll never amount to anything with the storms in his head. He could tell, back when he first told them all about the seed of his magic, that his family were expecting great things. Hopefully, he won’t disappoint them too much because he’s not going to be something great.

                _Oh. Oh._ He got into his head again. Minako is waiting for him to get dressed. It isn’t good to leave their guests waiting, especially at his first royal function. His first courtly function.

                Yuuri thinks that he’d rather be sick instead. Being sick has to be easier than small talk and polite conversation. Or well, at least for the socially awkward and anxious like him. He doubts that Viktor would find anything hard now. There’s nothing he could possibly be bad at, with all he has going for him.

                Except that’s not really true either. He keeps tabs on the Rievan news. Four years in, and there’s never been anything said about the Tsarina’s death. Yuuri couldn’t possibly imagine losing okaasan and not knowing who did it. Why they did it. Just because Viktor’s on top of the world, doesn’t mean he’s not still human. Yuuri can only guess that he’s so lonely. He’d have to be, without anyone to turn to in the middle of a court that probably still isn’t the one he knows, the one he trusts with his life.

                He can do this. Viktor lost everything at sixteen, and what’s one year?

                Yuuri has to do this. He’s got to prove to himself he’s strong enough.

                His own standards are impossibly high, so surely, if he can meet them, he can meet Viktor’s standards.

                He can make him less lonely, even if just for a minute.

                 It’s decided.

                Yuuri knows that he’s certainly not worth it, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least try. And so he goes, right into the surge of the storm.

~*~

                There is more to court when there are visitors. Viktor would prefer it to be Christophe. At least he could have some time where he doesn’t have to prove himself.

                Christophe already knows who he is. There’s no changing that. Nothing could make him think less of Viktor, but it’s not as if Savoie has much political pull anyways, without a nobility. Not that there’s not one, of course, but it’s easy to tell that without the titles, the sway is far less pronounced.

                If only he could throw his title out, as well.

                He’s already so bored of being Tsar Viktor Nikiforov.

                Except the nobility are rooted in their titles, unlike him. His court, the majority of them, wouldn’t care. Their families, however, probably would. The title grants power, and power brings in money. It’s the perfect life.

                Unless there’s no purpose to it.

                Then what is life worth in the first place?

                Georgi always insists that he’s just lonely. That he finds no meaning in his life of material wealth solely because there’s no one to remind his heart that matter has its place in his life. It certainly doesn’t feel like it to Viktor.  He’s held his hand out in front of him, as if to imagine an engagement ring there. The thought doesn’t particularly amuse him. Neither does meaningless sex.

                Not that he’d know, either way. Being the Tsar leaves so little time for anything. He makes time, however, for the ice. They understand each other. The cold bites, and so does he. The ice can be as cruel as it can be beautiful, and Viktor can always seem to meet it halfway. Magic dulled or magic burning brilliant, the ice is the flame and he the moth.

                Perhaps, in another life, it wouldn’t be just a dream. Even now, with stolen practices is the middle of the night or in hours where his presence seemed to be requested, but aught needed, he skates like a professional. Sometimes better than a professional. At least gold medals would be a mark of talent. Instead, there is a heavy golden circlet somewhere that is meant to rest upon his brow in three short years, when Mila comes of age. Oh, how he longs for youth again.

                For Mamochka, really.

                Instead, he skates in her memory. The loss, the love, the longing. He wonders if all skaters’ hearts are as fragile as glass on the ice, when the emotions are filleted and bared to the world.

                His people think it’s the greatest thing they’ve ever seen, when he allows them to watch him. They think it’s not real, have forgotten the Tsarina like the Tsar before her, the Viktor is the best actor they’ve seen. To some extent, it’s no lie. He wouldn’t have found out his nicknames in Common come down to “ _Living Legend_ ” and “ _the_ _Ice King”_ if his façade wasn’t paying off. But on the ice, there’s nothing there to hold him back. The heart on his sleeve wakes, and his bears his soul to the ice, so someone carries the memories that he’s bound to forget under all the pressure.

                If only someone else could see through the façade, he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

                The visitor turns out to be from the UN. Viktor listens to the droll discussion of how there were representations who wanted to call for an exemption, to put him on his rightful throne in a more international perspective now, and how the official wishes to apologize because the motion was dismissed, because of Mila. It wasn’t his choice, anyhow, so Viktor listens, but it doesn’t matter. Just because there’s no crown on his head doesn’t mean that he’s not got the power of the role.

                It’s the only reason that he’s been able to hold back efforts towards compulsory military service. He couldn’t imagine being sent into war as young as he gained power, and yet, his mother’s men wish to do just that, without thinking of the consequences. It’s by his sheer amount of power alone that the act has been staved off this long.

                They insist that the time is coming that Chengyi or Sakato will strike out at Rieva, because they have made no shows of power in a few years. He’s yet to figure out a way to word the bill to lessen the blow. Diplomacy, Viktor thinks, would work fine if he were dealing with someone of his generation. Men don’t need to go to war. He’s read up on his history. Even when Kachiyama was under militant pressure from Amambocha to let themselves be conquered, they didn’t need to bear arms to topple a war at their shores.  Destruction is too common these days.

                And yet, there is still a part of him, the part that still hurts over the loss of Mamochka, who wants to make the bill more strict, and pass it as soon as possible, so that the cracks close up. So that crime will diminish upon the streets, because they know that the soldiers will turn their disloyalty into death.

                Viktor’s forgotten all about the representative at his side. He’s nothing if not composed, however, and sends the representative off to a separate wing of the castle with one of the many guards that patrol, and he turns, rushing off to his quarters.

                He needs to find Yuri.

                Once, before, there would have been no reason to need someone else, but his own hair isn’t long enough to allow him to calm his mind. He can’t find reason to grow his hair back out now, without knowing the truth behind losing his mother, because he can’t seem to move on. Once they churn out compulsory military service, he supposes he might even have to crop his hair more cleanly than it is now, a bit shorter, to prove that were he not in charge, that he’d be training alongside the commoners. The nobility, for all their belief in the good of a compulsory military, would never be caught dead within it, or sending their children to it.

                It’s too bad that what they seem to think is not going to be what happens. Those who don’t have apt reason to stay will be going whether they like it or not. The only person in Rieva allowed to be two faced is Viktor himself.

                Yuri is, as expected, waiting in his chambers.

                Viktor truly wishes he knew what to do to make the poor boy happier. He knows that all the sharp words thrown his way are typically deserved, because sometimes, he forgets that Yuri isn’t his property. That he’s indebted to the castle, but that nobody would stop him from leaving. Yuri doesn’t deserve to bear Viktor’s cruelty.

                But he does anyway, and maybe it means that there’s a part of Yuri that cares, that understands, even if just a little bit.

                Deft fingers section golden hair, and start to twist the three strands together, as tight as possible. If it still feels anything like it used to when he was braiding his own hair, it’s painful. Pain is beauty, is what he feels as if he’s been told numerous times. It’s part of the way that all nobility has been conditioned, here. For someone who’s ended up a castle servant, Yuri certainly doesn’t need the conditioning.

                In time, Viktor wants to make it worth it. There’s still some chunk of land that lay unclaimed, and if Yuri holds out like the soldier he seems to be, then one day, he’ll become nobility of some sort. Surely, there are at least some titles out there for Viktor to give.

~*~

                Kachiyama is billowing silk, painted faces and soft words. It is talking toliets, neon lights, and a constant stream of things. It feels like it should come tumbling down, the way the centuries clash together so heavily.

                Phichit is amazed.

                The trees are covered in pink blossoms, but there was snow only a few weeks ago. It’s so much different from the endless heat of Taizhai. If only he were allowed to stay longer. Yuuri, no matter how painfully closed up he is, needs a few more friends. Not even Vicchan could scare Phichit away, although it seems that the dragon is Yuuri’s biggest excuse.

                The things that are said about traditional Kachiyaman dress are all lies, in his opinion. Sure, there’s no sense of security when only wrapped in layers upon layers of billowing silk, but it’s not like these are the kinds of places people get into fights. And his hamsters are both warm and close. It’s comforting to hear them squeak from among the folds of his kimono.

                Phichit won’t lie and say he doesn’t miss Taizhai after being gone for so long, but it’s not so important that he goes back either. Unlike Yuuri, he truly wants to see the world. He wants to share the world with the people at home who don’t have the resources he has, no matter what he wishes he could do for them. If he can do nothing else, this is what he wants to do.

                No one ever said that it would be easy, but he’s naturally personable. He’s going to make it work, somehow.

                It seems like that’s Yuuri’s plan too. Right now, it’s easy to tell he’s out of his element, and Phichit doesn’t even have magic yet. But it doesn’t take an empath to tell that every single time a tiff rises in the crowd, Yuuri gets tense.

                Maybe all the magic in him is too much.

                Probably not. The fault isn’t in the magic, but in his brain.

                It’s not that he can’t make it stop, but that he can’t figure out how.

                He wishes he could help Yuuri, the same way he helps the elderly in Taizhai with all his sisters, no matter what they want to do with their hour in the castle each week. If they want their nails painted, he’ll sit down and take his time and make their nails pretty. If they want to play cards, he plays cards. Even though he’ll be on the throne someday, he’ll be expendable from the actual work for plenty more years. He’d gladly trade places with Yuuri, just to give him the luxury of time he’s not got.

                He’s tried to save Yuuri all night, but the truth is, Yuuri is as stubborn as an ox. It’s not going bad, per say, but he just wishes Yuuri didn’t think so harshly of himself. Anyone that Phichit can catch after they’ve spoke to Yuuri seems to think a great deal of him, and there were even a few who wanted to know when he’d be courting.

                Yuuri judges himself far more than anyone else would ever dream of. As the shinnō, there could be no one better. Yuuri is kind and fair and headstrong and brilliant. Maybe Phichit’s only known him for a month, but the first impression Yuuri makes is far better than the one of so many of the royals back home.

                Kaichiyama is lucky to have him, whether he ends up on the throne or not.

                The party seems to be finally entering its closing hurrah. It’s a good thing. The night has seen far more than needed, it seems, between the one incident with Yuuri and the potted plant and the other incident that led to the prompt escort out of the Tennō by his wife.

                Phichit likes the fact that the guy had a sense of humor, but he supposes he can see why a bunch of stuck up types wouldn’t appreciate him drawing a big smiley face on his stomach. They could do with some more fun in their lives.

                Oh, how he wishes that he didn’t have to go home. He’d much rather stay here, where he has something to do. A duty, in some little way. It’s been another great month, but he knows that these trips are coming to an end. There’s no major trade deals brewing, and there’s not a war brewing either. Trade has been settled, two years in, and next year, Phichit knows he won’t be coming back.

                He knows it’s not the end of his friendship with Yuuri, but it feels like there’s going to be something missing all the same.

                Maybe it’s just politics. Yuuri’s bogged down so much already, that Phichit’s not even sure their friendship isn’t just careful positioning. He really hopes not, but there’s so many tangles that it doesn’t make sense anymore.

                Court life is among the most confusing types of lives to lead. It’s not like fame. You don’t ask to be royal, you’re just born royal. It’s birthright and blood and betrayal. Immortality comes from the worst things, from the legacies that last because there’s no other choice.

                Poor Yuuri. Phichit doesn’t think he’ll ever be magical, not when he’s already turned twelve and hasn’t shown any signs. He can do the basics, just the basics. But he’s fine with that. Yuuri is exciting enough for him, and he knows that if he’s ever having problems, he’s got plenty of family to fall back on.

                There’s no doubt in his mind about solitude and ice are all the same. There’s so little anyone can do for Yuuri, when so much of what troubles him is what makes him.

                In some ways, Phichit can see it. The ice, and the hold it has over him. The emotions, although less so. It sits on his shoulders and his demons play freely. Eventually, they’ll convince him suicide is the same as martyrdom.

                Eventually, there will be someone there to make things like that insignificant, hopefully. That’s all anyone can hope for in their dreams. Reality probably won’t be nearly as kind, what with titles and positions and the ins and outs of being royalty.

                It’s only a matter of time before all that magic takes its dues from Yuuri.

                He’ll be a legend or a mistake, depending on if he overcomes or succumbs.

                No wonder they say gods and monsters are one in the same.

                In the end, they’re all just human.

                In the end, it’s only who’s telling the story that really matters.

                Everyone is part good and part bad.

                You decide which you’ll see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't forget that i write faster with encouragement! also, come hang out with me on my [tumblr](http://infinitehearts.tumblr.com)!


	5. 20 // 16

                Three is a crowd. Three is far too many to entertain all at once, for Yuuri. And yet, these are the woes of court. He’s the traditional heir to the throne, although the times have changed. There is a far greater chance that Mari will take the throne than he will. The heavens know that she’s far more suitable for it.

                How he wishes that the Rievan court were open. It would certainly set him off, to think of having the Viktor Nikiforov so close, to have to entertain him, but it would also be everything he’s ever wanted. These people mean nothing to him. Sure, they’re his generation of leaders, but they think of themselves. They think of what they can acquire from Kaichiyama, not of what Kaichiyama can do. Mari doesn’t take the shit, but Yuuri knows he’s meek.

                Yuuri knows that eventually, if he’s left to rule, Kaichiyama will be nothing. He has no backbone, because his thoughts are not his own, but instead are the product of his doubts. He’d do anything to make it stop, to make the pushing stop, and he knows that he’d give away everything for nothing, slowly but surely.

                Minako always says he needs to be far more selfish.

                It’s easy to tell she’s right.

                Even if Yuuri had Viktor, he’d let him go.

                Royalty and selfishness go hand in hand. He has to learn. It’s all about getting the best for his people and his reign. Never about what is easy, about what others are initially willing to concede. He must do this, if he wants to admired.

                (If he wants the voices to stop agitating his anxiety. If he wants to feel sane. If he wants Viktor.)

                It’s not cruel, but instead, it is what’s best for him.

                One day, he will preen and demand like the world expects.

                (One day, he will crash and burn like he himself expects.)

                Adoli has sent lesser nobles. Amambocha has sent their young crown prince. In some ways, Yuuri is glad to be the oldest. Children, even those in the snootiest families, can be impressed most of the time by older children. He’s heard the stories, has watched as the same thing happens in his own country.

                He’s not a talker, and he certainly doesn’t want to try, not when he’s terrified of upsetting Conte Michele. The Contessa seems much more friendly, and much more capable of taking care of herself than her brother seems to think.

                Yuuri thinks that maybe, if he had a younger sister, he’d understand. He knows that nobility protects power, but the rest seems less enthused. One day, maybe, he’ll be able to figure it all out. After all, he’s still learning to push through with his empathy.

                He’s successfully pulled whole thoughts from Yuuko before. Maybe, if he can find a quiet enough moment, he can try it.

                Right now, though, he really hopes that she isn’t all over Takeshi. He needs help, if he’s got to deal with these ambassadors. She’s his only hope. The rest of the town will freak out over the visitors, if not over him too.

~*~

                As it turns out, Yuuri is very bad at timing.

                It’s nothing as bad as catching Yuuko and Takeshi together might be, but he can hear the yelling from outside Ice Castle. After this long, it’s hard to not slip into Yuuko’s emotions when she’s nearby, so he has a feeling of just what exactly is going on. Not much of an idea about why, but the protectiveness, the fear, and the longing are enough.

                He knows he should stop and see if she’s okay, but these strangers aren’t going to understand. They were promised some fun, and that’s all they want, not his tale of being friends with a subject of his future rule.

                Yuuri has to force himself to keep walking, to not slow down.

                They pass the rink, and continue up the mountain to Hasetsu Castle, yet another castle in name only. There is no denying the history in the building is true, down to the spirits who mingle freely among the visitors. It’s certainly not ice skating, but he doesn’t mind the exhibitions in the ninja house.

                Putting out a bit of a feeler, he decides that the others seem to find it exciting, especially after spending most of their lives in castles and estates.  Well, at least Sara and Leo do. The lack of formality they treat him with makes him a bit more comfortable with what he’s done, although he can’t help but wonder why. They will never really be friends in the traditional sense of the term, no matter how hard they try.

                That’s the only thing even in the least comforting about Michele, with all his bite and jeering. He seems to understand they are associates, and don’t have to be close.

                Truthfully, that’s a lie. Yuuri would much prefer to know those he’ll someday bargain with closely, because it will make all their lives easier. He wants friends, really. But he’ll keep lying to himself, nonetheless, because it is what it is.

                Some would say that’s absurd, but it feels like the only way Yuuri can keep himself somewhat sane.

                As it turns out, he doubts he’s sane at all.

                The diplomats end up going off on their own when they leave Hasetsu Castle. He trusts that they can make it back on their own, considering that the town is small and the people are so used to the palace having visitors they all know Common, more or less, and are more than willing to help a lost noble to the castle. It should be fine.

                He should go towards there as well, or even the family onsen, but that’s not where his feet take him. It’s to Ice Castle, to Yuuko.

                It feels like it’s his responsibility to make sure that she’s okay. She’s been his closest friend for years, without a care that he’s royalty and she’s not. She convinced Takeshi to treat him like any other kid, not like the Shinō. If he can’t help her out now, then how will he ever be able to care for a kingdom?

                Will he ever be able to care for the kingdom? Maybe that’s the bigger question. He’s passive and meek. He’s not fit to rule Kaichiyama, but maybe he can do this. Absorb, not project. He’s good at absorbing other emotions, especially when they feel so similar to his own.

                It’s for Yuuko and Takeshi. He can do this.

                All the lights in Ice Castle are turned off, and the quiet hum of the electricity is missing from the building. He can’t hear voices, but that doesn’t matter. It’s easy enough to tell that Yuuko is still in there. Both front doors are locked, but the back door will open anyways if the knob is jiggled just right. He’ll have to fumble around to the front to turn the lights in the office and hallways back on. It’s such a shame that he forgot his spare key at home. There’s a set of light switches at the front door he could have opened if he’d had his key.

                Oh well.

                The building is familiar, and from the inside it’s blissfully cool. The rink itself would be totally empty right now. He wishes that he could go skate on it, but Yuuko is more important than ice time alone. He’s no figure skater, after all. He never could be in this life. Somewhere else, perhaps, but that’s a different story. Right now, he has to find Yuuko and see what’s wrong.

                She’s far tougher than he is. She doesn’t cry for no reason, so he knows that something is wrong already. He only wants her to tell him what.

                Once the lights are on, finding Yuuko is a breeze. She lets out a startled breath, and her head pops up in the office window. Yuuri watches her visibly relax when she realizes it’s just him.

                He’s never been good when people are crying, but this is Yuuko. He knows her better than he knows himself sometimes.

                She can cry in his arms all she needs.

~*~

                The winter is particularly cold this year. It feels like there’s nothing left alive at all. Frostbite sets in so quickly that the guard is constantly reminding people to return to their homes as soon as possible in town, not to be rude or to rush anyone, but so instead they might return home with all their fingers and toes still attached.

                Yuri often complains about the biting wind that ripples through the stone walls of the castle.

                The cold wind is the warmest embrace that Viktor’s felt in a long time. He doesn’t even feel the chill, and Yakov is always scolding him for not wearing the proper attire to meet with the court. He just can’t help that he doesn’t need all the layers that the others wear.

                Lilia even recounted, albeit briefly, of how he used to cry when the late Tsarina would swaddle him in multiple blankets as just a small baby, to protect him from the cold.

                The cold feels like home in a way that the castle never has.

                All his meetings for the day are cancelled, due to the chill. The court is wrapped in blankets, lounging about in front of fireplaces, as if there isn’t central heat. His mother was fond of modernizing, at least. If only they could have modernized the entire system.

                Either way, he knows nobody will want to brave where he’s going. The rink his mother had installed in the castle was sufficient enough, but sometimes it was still nicer to be on actual ice. Natural ice. He could feel it, and all the life hiding in it’s throes, far more than anything man made.

                Skating was almost enough to make him forget, although he had been through far more pain than any man deserved. He was able to lose himself to the ice, all the way to the core. Even the part of him that belonged to another world could let go on the ice. Anyone could see it. Everywhere he spun, so did the ice. When he jumped, so did the ice. It was almost like the ice knew nothing more than how to sculpt itself to his will.

                It was beautiful.

                The snow was crunching under Mila’s feet, and Viktor didn’t even notice until she slipped and let out a startled shout. He nearly took a tumble himself, with how abruptly he stopped once he realized there was someone else around.

                “Shouldn’t you be inside? Yakov’s worried.”

                Viktor let out a snort unbecoming of the Tsar. “Yakov’s always worried, but I can’t believe he sent you out here after me. Where’s your coat?”

                Her smirk drew his attention more than her lack of a coat or tumble had. And then the snow at her feet started melting, slowly but surely. It seemed he wasn’t quite the only one with a bit of magic in the castle anymore.

                “Such a shame we’re opposites then. I thought that I’d be able to teach you some tricks out here.” He teased, a smile far more genuine than any other he’d given in the last six months on his lips.

                It certainly wasn’t a shock. It made sense that she’d end up with power as fiery as her hair. It was still a shock to see her growing up so fast. He never wanted that to happen to anyone else. He knew how much it hurt, but really, he shouldn’t have expected anything less. She’d just turned thirteen. In two short years, they’d sent them all off for Viktor’s coronation tour. As soon as her birthday passed, they’d hand him a crown.

                He wanted to run away, from it all. But nothing would change his fate, and even if it did, he couldn’t do that to Georgi. His family were the next in line, after all. It was bad enough to have to pull them into the court now, but he couldn’t hand over all the troubles he had to face. He’d learn to deal with it so nobody else had to.

                It was one thing for his own life to be miserable, but it was another to let the lives of the people close to him be miserable. His life was always going to end up this way, based on his last name.

                He’d be fine.

                After all, he had to be.

                Mila walked with him back to the castle, his footsteps freezing as her footsteps blazed. They were acting like children, but maybe that was all they were in the moment. Nothing was weighing down on their shoulders quite like it had been before, what with all the snow and wind.

                Viktor looked almost happy again.

                They both knew it wouldn’t last. Rieva had duties to her people. The court would resume as soon as the temperature pulled up the slightest bit, or as soon as the seamstress had outfitted the nobility with heavier cloaks. Business was to proceed as always, inclement weather or not. Their forefathers weathered the cold with far less than they had now.

                Viktor would return to his meetings, and Mila would return to her classes. They would fall back into the daily grind and forget about the mere idea of childhood yet again, for royalty had no time for such trivial things.

                Such a shame.

~*~

                The rink glowed softly out below the office, but Yuuri couldn’t imagine going down there anymore. He’s got to figure out what the hell is wrong with Yuuko. It’s cruel, what she did. Running away without any explanation. He’d let her cry as long as she needs, he’d let her have anything the castle could spare without a doubt, but he can’t let her keep hurting like this without knowing what he can do.

                She’s always been such a good friend to him. She’s always been there. She doesn’t deserve this. He knows there’s something to be done to help her. He has to be there for her the way that she’s always been there for him.

                And if she won’t tell him herself, well then he’ll just find out himself.

                It’s no worse than the times that she’s gone behind his back to find out what was wrong from Mari, or even Minako. He’s just got better resources, is all.

                And so he sits, and he waits. There’s nothing wrong with the giving her time to lower her guard again. It’s so much harder to try and pull his way in without that leeway. He wonders in=f somewhere along the way, he’s turned mind’s eye into something far more complex. Minako hasn’t taught him this. This is something entirely accidental, but he’s unafraid.

                It almost feels the same, to slip into someone’s thoughts, as it does to slip into their consciousness. But thoughts are far more open than consciousness is.

                Yuuri wonders if Yuuko will even realize he’s in her head. Well, at first. It’s just be cruel to not let her know at all. The slip from thoughts to consciousness isn’t too hard. It’s only a little bit of a pull out, not the entire way.

                There. It’s been long enough.

                He feels like nothing, and then he feels like everything all at once.

                Babble. That’s what it sounds like around him, and it’s certainly akin to when he’s panicking. Well, he’s in, but hearing everything isn’t exactly his specialty. There’s no way to slow her mind down. All he can do is listen.

_“I’m pregnant, oh shit. What am I going to do? How am I going to tell Takeshi? I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant.”_

                It’s less crazy than she seems to think, to Yuuri. It’s no wonder that she was in a screaming match either. But for all the worries that are plaguing Yuuko, Yuuri knows she’ll turn out okay.

                It’s easier to recognize his own thoughts in her head than it is when he moves into her senses. He only lingers long enough to let her realize that he’s there, that he’s been in there. He would have expected her to go home, but it looks like she went to the onsen instead.

                Then again, he doubts that anyone would want to go home after a fight with their parents. He knows he wouldn’t enjoy it, royalty or not. He’s seen the times that Mari’s gotten herself in trouble with their parents, and it’s downright scary.

                Now he feels bad for prying, but what’s done is done. Yuuko can decide if she wants to be mad or forgive him.

                He runs off towards the onsen, hopeful to catch Yuuko before she flees again.

~*~

                It’s pure luck that he makes it in time.

                She’s in the doorway, and he blocks her path away. The springs are surrounded by tall privacy fences, so running inside would do her no good. She can’t leave unless she talks to him.

                “Yuuri, I’m not in the mood to talk about it right now.”

                Well, that’s certainly not the way to phrase it.

                He’s still not good at expelling emotions, but he’s getting better. So he takes hold of all the mess in her head, and he pulls it first to himself, and then he sends it off towards a nearby fern. It shouldn’t take so much effort or so many steps, but it still works. He’ll just have to keep practicing.

                “There. Now we can talk about it!”

                Yuuri wants to hang his head in shame. He sounds like Phichit now. But he can’t rewind time, so, it’ll be fine. Vicchan is curled up in the corner, near someone’s feet. So that’s where he’s been all day.

                Yuuko looks more than a little frustrated, still.

                “Well, you see, it’s not that big of a deal. I mean, Takeshi will love you and the baby so… it’s not like you’ll be alone. And if your mom keeps giving you grief, you can always come stay in the castle with us. There’s plenty of bedrooms and all, and food, and then you can have someone around all the time to make sure that nothing goes wrong or anything…”

                “YUURI!”

                Oh. He’s just rambling now. And he’s up and told her that he knows already, but at least there’s not that many people around. And the majority of them are sleeping, or maybe passed out since they look like Minako’s drinking buddies, so it’s not like they care all that much anyways.

                “Do you… do you really mean it?”

                He pulls her up close again, trying so hard to reassure her. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think it was true. Have you seen the way Takeshi looks at you? You’re his whole world. He’ll be thrilled. I know you’ll be okay.”

                Her breathing calms down for the first time all day. There’s certainly still challenges ahead of her, especially with telling Takeshi, but Yuuri thinks she’s going to be alright now.

                After all, he’s pretty sure the worse is over.

~*~

                His feet bleed. There’s no time to soak them anymore.

                Maybe it’s what he deserves.

                Viktor climbs up off the side of the bathtub with a wince of pain. These kinds of things are always dreadfully boring. He has to pretend that he actually cares about the ideas and notions thrown around, that he likes sending these children off to train for a war that has no reason to exist.

                Isn’t it just imperialism at its finest?

                He gives them as much freedom as possible in this one night. Tomorrow they’ll be sent off to have their souls killed, to scare out any thought of defection.

                Every six months, they send out ten thousand more soldiers, and they bring home only half that many. The people love their nation, but he wishes they didn’t try to put their lives on the line for it.

                There’s enough land already.

                The bandages are tight, and his shoes are even tighter.

                He wears military regalia in fuchsia, with badges that he’s never earned. He puts on the mask of someone who knows how to woo the press, who knows how to woo the people, and who knows what they’re doing.

                Mamochka would have told him to hold his chin high, that he was doing his best.

                Viktor wonders if she’s proud of him, for holding on this long. Viktor wonders if she even cares at all. After all, why would she? He’s still managed to let her murderer evade him, even though he’s been searching for years.

                He supposes it doesn’t matter anymore. Yakov and Lilia will come looking for him if he doesn’t make it downstairs to the ballroom soon. He’s supposed to give a speech about the pride of serving Rieva before meals are served, and then he’s sure he’ll be expected to dance with as many people as possible, no matter what pain it puts him in.

                He wonders which countries were sent invitations for representatives to come visit. If he’s lucky, maybe Christophe will be in attendance. At least then he’d have a friend not entirely occupied by state affairs.

                If he leaves now, he might even be able to sneak Mila in, even though she’s far too young to attend. She doesn’t quite understand it all yet, with how little they let her in on. Viktor assumes that young Yuri even knows more about the truth of these balls than Mila does.  Speaking of Yuri, perhaps he’d like to come to. If just for the food.

                He’s in terrible pain, but he continues off down the hall towards Mila’s quarters. The Babicheva’s have always been a matriarchal family, filling whatever roles are needed in the court. He’s never considered how Mila might feel about the murder, considering it took her mother as well.

                Castle healer, spymaster, or whatever the current regime called for. It never did matter. That’s what he remembers. The royal funeral procession, for his mother.

                He supposes he’s never quite known what to do in terms of other people’s feelings. Yet again, he realizes there was so much more he could have done, and instead, it’s too late to do anything.

                Mila’s door opens in front of him, and he has to step out of the way before it hits him. There’s no way she’s guessed what he’s planning, but evidently, the clothes gave him away.

                “Come down to Yuri’s room when you’re dressed please.” He mumbles right before she shuts the door back up.

                It’s such a shame. All these clothes, and they mean nothing but war.

                Some days, he wishes he had someone else’s life. A life where he didn’t have to carry a country on his shoulders. But he knows nothing less.

                Mamochka would have had good advice. She always did. One day, he’ll have to have an heir, to take over. He can only hope that he’ll be as good of a parent as she was to him.

                Anyways, Yuri. Yes, time to ask Yuri.

                “Open up, I’m going to sneak you and Mila into the ball!”

                The silence grows awkward, and Viktor almost wishes the castle was infested with crickets, just so the air wouldn’t be so still.

                “Oi, go away old man! I don’t want you hang out with you and Baba.”

                He’s so moody, to be so young. If he really wanted to, Viktor could tell him he had to come anyways, but it wouldn’t make a different in the grumbling. It’s so hard to know what he wants, especially without seeing his face. Most of the time, Viktor feels like Yuri is just lonely. He’s done his poking around. Plisetsky isn’t a common name in this part of Rieva. It’s too northern.

                Perhaps bringing Nikolai to the castle would cheer him up a little. The old man was the only other Plisetsky in the area. They had to be related, even if a generation or two apart.

                But not now. No, the older generations were still watching him with hawks’ eyes. Perhaps he could send someone else down with Yuri to see his grandfather.

                If it would make him happier, it would certainly be worth the time and effort.

                Viktor’s not afraid to admit he has no clue how to take care of children. He never had any siblings, after all. Oh, how he wished he did. Anyone to make him feel less lonely.

                That’s the remnants of the life he left behind to become the Tsar. He’s alone now, truly, for he can’t bear to pressure Mila or Georgi or even Yuri.

                Yakov and Lilia don’t coddle him, anymore. He rarely feels like the son they never had now. Only in fleeting moments, when they remind him to speak Common in the court with guests, to use informal Common to refer to them because they hold lesser titles that he, even if they are older.

                It’s madness.

                The ball.

                Right. There’s Mila, and it’s time to go to the ball. Perhaps, If he were anyone else, he might believe her beautiful. Lord knows that.

                But he’s never quite felt the way Georgi has about girls. He loves Mila, truly, but only like a sister. He can’t get attached in the way Georgi can.

                Mamochka only asked him once if he found any girls pretty. He still remembers telling her that she was the only girl he liked at all, because the others didn’t understand things the way he did.

                He wonders if she knew then that he’d never like girls at all.

                He wonders if Yakov and Lilia know, because they never talk of marriage prospects. It’s never discussions about carrying on the line.

                Perhaps it’s the only sympathy they have. After all, marriage to someone who can bear his children is inevitable. Undoubtedly, the lady will come from another castle in another country, to strengthen relations between the two.

                Not many countries have someone from the royal bloodline he’d want to marry with a sibling who could bear the Rievan heir.

                “Viktor? Are we just going to stand here?”

                Oh, the ball.

                “No, we’re not. C’mon, Milochka.”

                Yakov might have his head for bringing her, but she’s always cooped up in her suite, studying for her entrance into court. Viktor knows she has to be fed up with it by now.

                If he can give her one night of wonder, he has to give it to her, because she deserves so much more.

                If her attitude is anything to go by, it’ll be her one day leading the army into battles.

                But she deserves to be a child right now, because she won’t be a child much longer in this castle. No, the life of the court is cruel, and sooner rather than later, the whirlwind will erupt and refuse to die for many, many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so, first off, this might hit a little bit of a hold, since i've got two bangs to work on and a new job, but i promise that the end will come, and it hopefully will be no crazier of posting that already haha... anyways feel free to hit me up on my [tumblr](https://infinitehearts.tumblr.com) to chide me into writing more often!

**Author's Note:**

> Hang on for the ride! Updates might not be perfect, or scheduled and I've not got a beta, but this is my favorite piece by far. Kudos and comments give me life, so leave those if you're feeling good going in :)


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